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In kindergarten, I was always the first to arrive and often the last to go home.
July 5, '94, "Casa del Bambino" nursery school, Voltana (RA): the first half of Nigeria-Italy in her kitchen, with her dining on stracchino and salad, and me waiting for my father to pick me up after yet another endless day of work: "Ciò, Chioetto! These little guys here have some muscle! It takes some judgment, otherwise the coach will go back to Fusignano!"
Sister Immacolata was an honorary member of the family for many boys who grew up in the typical community of the province, including mine.
"Il Divin Codino" only suggests the myth, without ever letting it breathe. In this, and only in this, it faithfully captures the character it claims to narrate: the Roberto Baggio footballer taught us to accept the possibility of being unfinished.
That's fine, the nostalgia effect always works wonders, emotion is a side effect: Roby was an honorary member of the family for many boys, including mine.
And that's enough.
For everything else, a film is just a film.
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